His conscience
by Checkmate 24601
Summary: He stares.  He should not have been surprised...but he is.  "Please help me find the door."


_I am in blood  
>Stepp'd in so far, that, should I wade no more,<br>Returning were as tedious as go o'er.  
>-Macbeth, Act III, scene iv<em>

He stared.

He really should not have been surprised, should have expected it really. The thought '_Of course she would sustain injuries' _was overpowered by a more painful observation as she stepped out of the blinding white light between the portals of this world and the next.

'_Is that the same girl he knew?' _She was still not aware of him, not yet, so he took the time to look – _to really look_. He was first drawn by the black eye which seemed to blossom across the left side of her face, swallowing it whole. Dark, angry bruises splotched across her bare arms and calves, peeking through the ripped white fabric of her dress. _Naturally, he would give her a uniform. _The boots on her feet were a hair's breadth away from collapsing at the seams and soles.

_Is she … actually missing a patch of her hair? _He cringed - not an internal wince, but an actual, physical cringe. He could feel the shift in stance and surprise of his companion standing beside him. After all, he never did wear his heart on his sleeve – _not like her_. _At least he never displayed the emotions that mattered. _

The feeling began. Voices were starting to flicker near the periphery of his mind. He repressed them. He continued observing.

_She's thinner. _Her hands were trembling. _He would later learn that was not from her kidnapping, but from the interrogation which followed her rescue and the final Victory. A familiar someone from another Lifetime had drilled the thunder into her temples - to make her speak, to make her confess (when there was no more to be said)_. 

The whisperings within him grew louder. He ignored them still. He had difficulty swallowing.

Her skin has become so pale, so diminished from its lively, sun-blush hue – a stark contrast to its condition mere months ago. _What did you expect? There's no sun there. _Combined with the shadows beneath her eyes, she looked nearly gaunt as though her skin was stretched too tightly across her high cheekbones.

"… _your …" _Sweat beaded the back of his neck. He continued onwards with his looking. "_Yes, such a scientist… such a brilliant scien-"_

Finally, he looked at where he feared most. _Her eyes._ Truth can always be found in the eyes. The one saying that held true, even for him, that stood the test of centuries is: _the eyes are the windows to the soul_. _Dear Kami…_

"_poor, shattered, broken soul…"_

Exhaustion. Exhaustion flooded those beautiful – _yes, they are still beautiful, but the damaged sort of beautiful _– grey, amethyst hues. The haggard expression, which told of a burden beyond grief, beyond words, weighed down in her eyes. _Not her posture, which regardless of her tiredness, was still upright, dignified, intact, unbroken…_

"_It's your fault." _

"Yes, it is" he numblyanswered his inner demons, feeding them. The feeling, the **guilt** _from his past experiments gone wrong,_ grew. That expression should never appear on anyone, much less the face of a sixteen-year old girl, one who has already suffered and admirably borne loss.

"_It's your fault. You've killed her." _

He could not argue against that. As the doors slid shut, he remembers this same girl _no a different girl _from months ago bringing him leftover pastries from her part-time job at the bakery. He remembers spicy food, laughter, an unchained Imagination which never checked itself despite skepticism, indifference or hostility.

She has finally noticed him. He tenses, preparing himself. Recognition dawns in her eyes. For one long moment, he waits. Then to his horror, she smiles.

She _smiles _at him.

She smiles _at him_.

"Urahara-san! Yoruichi-san!"

Inadvertently, she has silenced his inner demons. He _and they_ were numb, shocked, surprised at her warm greeting. He cannot hear what he says, barely taking note of Yoruichi's words, _but he hears her._

"It's good to be back." This was accompanied by an exhausted smile, a genuine, but slipping, sad smile. He cringed once more at her choice of words. Thankfully, nobody notices.

But the numbness grows. As Orihime hugs Yoruichi, and returns the hugs from Tessai, Ururu and Jinta, Urahara watches this with inner mounting numbness. He had to excuse himself after Yoruichi decides that Orihime and her _nakama _should stay the night. Bracing himself against the wall of his room as his legs give way, Urahara Kisuke indulged in a moment of weakness and uncertainty. This was the position Yoruichi finds him in later. She waits for him to speak, although she already knows.

"Tell me, Kisuke."

_She…_

_She doesn't…_

"She doesn't blame me…" _Was that honestly his voice? Oh how the mighty have fallen. _Yoruichi does not affirm or deny. She waits as she has done all these centuries, just like when he fled the Seireitei. She waits for him before she follows.

And for some reason, the lack of blame feels worst. Sure, one tiny part of him _the coward within him _is momentarily relieved, but he knows. He knows that unless he apologises _and receives her forgiveness _he will forever be haunted.

Urahara learns the extent that Hueco Mundo continues to hang over and blanket Orihime.

He sees it in her inability to stomach meat and her formerly beloved spices and wasabi.

He sees it in her abhorrence for white clothes.

He sees it in her tears when she fingers green beads and threads.

He sees it in her sleepwalking and nightmares, recalling the night she first stayed over how she had pushed the shelves in the _shoten _around and asked him and Yoruichi with blank eyes to _please help me find the door_.

He accepts all this, and continually watches over her. He shows up at her apartment, whether she realizes or not, to make sure she has not injured herself while sleepwalking. He invites her once a week for dinner at the _shoten, _making sure that Tessai makes more soup on that day while slowly reintegrating her to wasabi, red bean paste, leeks, etc. He does all this without question because he wants her forgiveness even when she has not lay the blame on his shoulders.

He underestimates her, as he shamefully did once before the Winter War. One evening after dinner - somehow they were alone - she takes his hand. With a solemn gaze, she announces:

"Urahara-san, I can't forgive you" _the feeling seizes him by the throat at that one moment. One moment, he despairs and drowns – _"because there is nothing to forgive," Orihime finishes with a gentle smile.

At that moment, Urahara realises he does love Orihime. _Not in the same way that he loves Yoruichi_. No, it is not a sexual, physical love. Nor is it the gratitude-love of the forgiven. Neither is it the tough-love he regularly dishes out to Ichigo.

There is no name for this love. This Love is the kind reserved for someone who never judges him, who never makes demands of him. This Love is the type given to that one Hand which forever holds a palm out, whether he is deserving or not. _He isn't. _

And Urahara knows, _knows_ with a certainty beyond any of his experiments past or future, as he hugged her, that he will forever protect her. _Always. _

_Not only because she deserves protection… _

_Nor because she has forgiven him…_

But for simply being herself, being kind and offering him atonement, redemption, a second chance…

She is his tenuous link to Humanity _when he should passed on centuries ago_.

She is his Conscience.

_So how can he not protect her? _

A/N I do not own Bleach.

I feel that the anime and manga do not develop Orihime's character sufficiently post-Winter War. An event like Hueco Mundo is bound to leave an imprint on her.

Just in case, you were wondering, the 'familiar someone from another lifetime' is Kurosutchi Mayuri.


End file.
